


Breakfast at the Barren House #1

by harlequinky



Series: Breakfast at the Barren House [1]
Category: Native Tongue
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequinky/pseuds/harlequinky
Summary: Natha is having her morning tea and savoury bread when Michaela the Head Nurse comes to check on her...
Relationships: Natha/Michaela
Series: Breakfast at the Barren House [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722985
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Breakfast at the Barren House #1

Natha Chornyak had never been more humiliated in her entire life than when Thomas and Aaron had belittled her for her feelings for Jordan Shannontry. When Jordan had reported her fervent hallway declaration to her father. And when her own father had informed her husband, only for them both to wheeze with laughter over the possibility of someone reciprocating her feelings.

Indeed, how could she have imagined someone’s unreserved kindness and bodyparl of some vague affection and regard for her meant something more than what it seemed? She, a linguist woman, who was expected to read human behaviour as easily as her own native REM-34. Oh, but the yellow rose!

Natha shook her head, her single long braid a pendulous but comforting weight on her back. She couldn’t spend the entire morning wallowing in the past. It was better, safer to presume kindness was done out of a sense of obligation. People, particularly those of the Line families, had roles to fill, jobs to do, translations to elucidate. Fixing clear meanings to perceptions eradicated the chance of uncertainty. And she was used to being sure of things.

Her regular cup of herbal tea, and Susannah’s warm spice bread had cooled a little. This time of year the trees were browning, and in parts, blushing through seasonal ochrification. Natha inhaled deeply, the crisp air flushing her chest, and grounding herself in the square of wan sunlight washing the kitchen floor.

On the path outside, Michaela, the head nurse of Barren House, trotted happily towards the kitchen where Natha sat. She was effortlessly sparkling as always; today her nurse smock gleamed a pale yellow cream and her hair shook loose on her shoulders. As her gaze focused on Natha, her face lit up in recognition.

“Natha! How is your health? I haven’t seen you around in ages,” Michaela mused, visibly pleased to have chanced upon the Chornyak Household’s most wanted linguist. She walked over and clasped Natha’s upturned face in her cool palms, searching for signs of a healthier constitution.

Sure, Natha’s cheeks were gently flushed, the colour had come back to her skin, breath seemed even, her eyes were at ease and well-rested and lovely and green-brown in the light, and yet, sad somehow—Natha clasped her wrists and brought them back down.

“I’m doing fine, Nurse, no need to take time out of your usual rounds,” Natha assured brusquely, suddenly hyperconscious of the attention. She glanced around her, to see if any of the children or the women in the Barren House had walked by. The hallway was silent.

“But I wanted to, Natha,” Michaela said, simple as day, unaffected by Natha’s brushoff. She sat back in another chair at the breakfast table, resting a long gaze on her impatient patient.

“Well, yes, I’ve been terribly busy with the Jeelods’ new Green New Deal, where they are proposing to reduce Terran carbon emissions by 2220. Apparently the high carbon levels are affecting their transports, which is ridiculous, because carbon levels have been rising since the early 1900s,” Natha nattered on, hoping the subject change would dispel the sudden nervousness that had crept into her body since Michaela had entered her morning. “And of course, the Encodings, as you know, are well on their way to, uh, dissemination.”

Michaela leaned forward, chin resting on her hand, smiling a little. Oh, the way that mouth curved upwards. “Ooh yes, you must teach me your most beloved word in Láadan.”

Natha thought for a while, the seconds pouring away. What could she show her? She didn’t have a favourite. Surely, a noun for some object in Michaela’s daily use. A verb, to remind her of her habits. What singular import, had she to choose one, would adequately represent this underground river of meanings that carried so much hope for so many women of the Lines?

Would Michaela even understand, as a non-linguist? Natha dismissed the thought quickly. Cynicism was a slow poison to language acquisition. To teach was to hope constantly, to know there are many inroads to knowledge, each native to the few that already innately understood it.

“I think you would like this one — lowewithaláad.” Natha accented ‘with’, and drawled the last ‘aah’ sound. She said it a few more times, so Michaela could copy the sound. “It means to feel almost directly someone’s joy or anger or pain. I thought of it when you carted me home from the hospital.”

Michaela watched Natha’s lips part and purse, as she practiced the sound out loud. Sounds of their own pronunciations leapfrogged over the morning birds. Michaela, curious, probed, “What made you think of it?”

Natha shrugged. “I didn’t have to say anything. You just understood that I would have wanted an escort back to the Barren House.”

Michaela cocked her head, surprised at the sudden disclosure. Yet Natha had gone quiet and curled inwards at the memory of the surgery. Instinctively, her right hand moved to the flat space where her breasts used to be. Despite the time had passed, remnant pain still shot through her chest from time to time.

Michaela felt bad. She knew she had trespassed on a deep and private feeling, and reached across the edge of the table with a cupped and open hand as apology.

Natha was moved by the gesture. Michaela’s bodyparl was leant forward, her brows threaded together with concern, her face open and listening. Could this be the start of a pattern she could trust? Natha was overwhelmed by an urge to bury her head in the soft folds of the nurse’s smock. Michaela could have gone so far as to stroke her hair, like how they did to young linguist infants to calm them down, and she would not have minded.


End file.
